Against the Wind

by Anne Stuart

“I’m sure you are.” He moved very slowly, almost carefully then, and the touch of his hands was magic on her parched skin, the touch of his mouth a tiny bit of paradise as he gently brushed her lips. She trembled, shutting her eyes, and leaned back against the wall as his mouth softly moved along the tender skin of her neck, kissing, biting, soothing. For a moment she felt lost, and gladly so, ready to dissolve in the long-imagined feel of his hands on her flesh. The box in her hand began to slip from nerveless fingers, and suddenly remembrance returned, and she jerked away from him.

  He seemed unsurprised by her sudden withdrawal. Once more he shielded the expression in his eyes, and she wondered briefly if there’d ever been a moment when she’d known what he was thinking. “Stay in your room,” he said, moving away. “You might begin packing. I have no idea when I’ll be able to arrange transport, but it might be any time.” His eyes dropped to the candy box, then moved back to her troubled face. “You’d better pack that on top.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if you tried to hide it people might become too suspicious.”

  “Do you know what’s in there?”

  “I can imagine. It means a lot, you know, that Sam’s willing to trust you.”

  “Something I can cherish in my declining years,” she said in a sarcastic tone of voice, hoping to shore up her sagging defenses.

  “It’s better than nothing,” he said in a weary voice, and it was all Maddy could do to keep from reaching up a soothing hand and pushing that extraordinary length of sun-streaked hair away from his face.

  “Maybe,” she said. “Maybe not.”

  The room that had felt like such a prison only hours earlier had suddenly taken on new dimensions. Bright sunlight was streaming in the window overlooking the courtyard, and the cheerful twittering of the birds, the rich scent of flowers, and the warm breeze were all curiously cheering. Maddy tossed the box of candy onto the bed, remembering for a moment the hours she’d spent last night, sleeping next to Jake. The ropes were still looped around the bedstead, and she tried to summon forth a righteous rage. All she could manage was an uncharacteristic smile.

  Such games men played. The old man who had once been her father was going to die for those games, and Maddy had no guarantee that Jake wouldn’t also. His tiny island of innocence, Sam had called it. The very thought should have rankled. She had never felt less innocent in her entire life, and doubtless Jake recognized that fact. It hadn’t seemed to dim the desire that flared between them at the most unexpected moments.

  She’d repacked her suitcase when she’d gotten it that morning, hating the thought of alien hands pawing through her silky underclothing, her toiletries, her books. In the half hour she’d been with Sam someone had searched again, and Maddy accepted the fact with resignation, refolding the clothes neatly and placing the candy box on top. For a moment she wished they really were raspberry creams. She’d give five years of her life to satisfy her chocolate addiction, and raspberry creams were her favorite. She couldn’t look at the box without her mouth watering. Damn Sam Lambert anyway. That was one more she owed him.

  She sat back on her heels, staring down at the neat suitcase, at the box of candy lying innocently on top. How well did Sam Lambert know her, after all these years? Did he really expect her to meekly do his bidding, to smuggle the candy box back to the States without even looking inside? He’d never had such insight into her thought processes before; why should he have changed?

  There was no way she was going to be his obedient little daughter, not anymore. Oh, she’d take the candy box back, deliver it to someone properly sympathetic. But she wasn’t going to do it without checking what was inside first.

  She reached out a tanned, slender hand to the box of candy and then hesitated. Maybe she didn’t really want to find out what was inside. Maybe she was better off not knowing.

  But she knew damned well that box could prove extremely hazardous to her health. If she was going to die for something she might as well find out why. Without further delay she grabbed the box, ripped off the cellophane, and looked inside.

  No chocolates, of course. Beneath the empty tray that had once held raspberry creams lay an unmarked videotape. No papers, no photographs. Just the tape.

  There was nothing she could do but put it back, close the box, and place it in her suitcase. Puente del Norte didn’t even boast television, much less something as sophisticated as a video cassette recorder. If transporting the videotape proved her downfall, she’d have to die in ignorance. Damn Sam Lambert again. With a despairing sigh she turned back to the bed and her limited supply of reading material.

  If the Faulkner novel had been uninspiring earlier on, by now it was deathly. The trials of the Snopes family paled beneath Maddy’s current dilemma. She felt restless, bored, edgy, and nervous. And frustrated by a longhaired, half-savage soldier of fortune who should have been the last person in the world to get through her well-built defenses. It must only be the memories of the past, she told herself, ignoring the fact that there was a world of difference between the short-haired, dark-suited Secret Service man and the man who’d shared her bed last night. Just as there was a world of difference between the shy, adolescent passion she’d formed for him and the very real, very physical longing that she was having a hard time ignoring.

  Jake knew exactly what he was doing, each time he looked at her, each time he kissed her, each time those strong, dangerous hands of his brushed against her. The very sense of imprisonment had been faintly, perversely erotic, but now that she was no longer captive she found herself wanting him even more. Damn him, and damn that elusive power he still held over her.

  She closed Faulkner with a snap, turning to the pile of books beside the bed. Maybe Hemingway would be better. At least there’d be plenty of action and terse dialogue not unlike her present situation.

  She was two chapters into The Sun Also Rises when a short rap on the door pulled her out of the first moments of forgetfulness she’d had in days. Before she could reply the door opened to reveal a grinning Carlos, ammunition belts swathed around a naked, sweating torso, jeans hanging low on his hips, a knife in his belt. Maddy sat there on the bed, holding herself very still, wondering whether she had time to scream.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Carlos’s grin broadened. “So the little gringa was everything she said she was.” He moved further into the room, but Maddy noted with distant relief that he hadn’t bothered to close the door behind him, and his hands were tucked in his belt, far away from the lethal-looking knife. “That must have come as quite a surprise to our friend Murphy.”

  Maddy said nothing, just watched him out of wary eyes, and Carlos’s smirk took on a distinctly lascivious cast. “Or perhaps it was no surprise at all. Perhaps he knew just who you were from the moment he saw you. I would think you would be unforgettable, but who can say how Murphy’s memory has held up over the years. He certainly hasn’t been a monk, lighting candles to your sainted memory.”

  There was a malicious glint in his lizard eyes, a glint that Maddy refused to respond to. “What’s the matter?” Carlos continued, moving closer, so that the strong reek of sweat and chili peppers permeated her nostrils. “Cat got your tongue? Are you still afraid of me, Sam’s daughter?”

  “Of course not,” she lied, moving toward the edge of the bed. “Why should I be?”

  Carlos grinned. “For a great many good reasons, mi amiga. Jake would be more than happy to tell you several dozen.”

  “And what would you tell me?”

  Carlos moved closer, and one filthy hand reached out to grasp her chin in an ungentle grip. “I would tell you to beware of the jackal,” he said softly, and not for one moment did Maddy doubt him.

  He pulled away then, and it took all Maddy’s reluctant willpower not to wipe the feel of his hard, sweaty hand from her face. “You’re wanted, little chicken,” he said then, moving away from her. “You have a visitor.”

  “Visitor?” Sudden uneasiness assailed her.


  “In the front parlor, waiting for you like a suitor.”

  “Who?”

  “Who else but the peaceful Minister of Agriculture?” he countered with heavy irony. “General Ortega, presenting his compliments to the daughter of El Patrón. You’d better hurry, gringa, before Jake cuts his throat with a table knife. There’s no love lost between the two of them, and I left them staring at each other like dogs about to fight over a tasty bitch. Go on, perrita. See if you can ease trouble rather than cause it.”

  If anything, Carlos had understated the case. She found Jake and the suave general together in one of the dusty, disused rooms on the first floor of the hacienda, and if the general managed a certain elegance, seated on a sheet-covered divan with his spotless gray uniform already streaked with dust, Jake looked nothing more than murderous. Maddy could feel the waves of hatred billowing through the room, and she knew with sudden certainty that that hatred went two ways and had very little to do with her.

  Jake straightened from that deceptively casual slouch when she entered the room, and she heard the whisper of a sigh as she moved past him. “Keep him busy.” Then he was gone, and General Ortega had risen, kissing her hand and showering her with meaningless compliments, all the time his dark-brown, almost black eyes stared at her unwinkingly, very much like Carlos’s lizard eyes.

  She’d spent more pleasant hours in her life. With the charm and deftness of a cobra Ortega twisted his way into her brain, asking a question here, a question there, until she was completely flustered and totally livid. He was a master at this kind of interrogation, and she was a novice. All she had was a determination not to hurt her father by being too free with her tongue. And then she realized that her father could hang for all she cared. It was Jake she wanted to protect.

  “So your father was looking well, Miss Lambert? I wonder if I might be permitted to visit with him for a few short minutes? I wish to present President Morosa’s compliments and assure him that any aid he desires will be his.”

  “I’m sure you do,” she said, and there was only a light tinge of sarcasm gilding her words. “But I’m afraid that’s out of the question. My father is recovering from a serious illness, and his visitors are limited. I was only able to see him for the first time this morning, and then only for fifteen minutes.”

  “He is recovering, Miss Lambert? We have had the most disturbing word that El Patrón might be more seriously ill than even we supposed. President Morosa’s personal physician can be flown by helicopter at a moment’s notice, should you think it necessary.”

  For a fleeting moment Maddy remembered Henry Milsom of the bleary eyes and the incessant drinking, and almost succumbed. And then she remembered the look of her father, the look of death hovering just beyond reach, and she knew in her heart of hearts that no fancy doctor could help him any more.

  She shook her head regretfully. “I thank you for the offer, General Ortega, but there is no need. He’s gaining strength quite rapidly. Perhaps in a few weeks you might come back. …”

  “I am pleased to hear he’s getting better. Perhaps I might speak to him for just a minute, then, if his strength is improving. …”

  And so it went, Ortega probing, Maddy lying, and never knowing when those lies were unnecessary, when they were idiotically clear, or when they did more harm than good. Various people appeared at the door, glanced in, and quickly disappeared. No one seemed eager to rescue her from the tenacious bull terrier of a general and one hour stretched to two.

  No one came to offer them refreshments, and Maddy could well understand why. The provisions in the old villa were limited indeed; it seemed unlikely that the fastidious general would welcome an afternoon tea of bean paste and stale tortillas. Nor did he need to know their supplies were so low. It would have provided a welcome distraction, one that Maddy badly needed in the midst of all the feint and parry, and when Soledad finally slouched in she greeted her stepmother with a cry of real gratitude.

  Her relieved greeting fell on preoccupied ears. It took her two seconds to remember her erstwhile stepmother already knew the general, in the biblical sense as well as the social one. For a moment Maddy wondered if there was any man the luscious Soledad had missed in her formative years. She could still remember the sound of that pleading, drunken voice outside Murphy’s door. Well, tonight Maddy wouldn’t be there, and he could let Soledad in, once more betraying the man he was supposed to worship.

  “Madelyn, my sweet,” Soledad cooed, “why don’t you go on now? I’m sure the general will excuse you. He and I have a great many old times to talk about.”

  She could just bet they did, Maddy thought cynically. “Then I think I’ll go up and spend some time with my father.”

  “No!” It was a tiny shriek, quickly covered by a nervous laugh. “I’m sorry, darling, but Samuel is busy right now with Jake and the others. Perhaps after dinner.”

  Ortega followed all this with great interest, and for a moment Maddy wondered whether Soledad could be trusted. Apparently, for all her extramarital activities, Jake did trust her, or he never would have let her near Ortega. As far as she could tell Jake didn’t make mistakes, certainly not of that magnitude. She had no choice but to trust her also and be grateful that she could finally escape to the coolness of the second-floor bedroom. The tropic heat and the briefness of her sleep last night had left her uncharacteristically drowsy.

  She could feel two pairs of dark, hispanic eyes following her as she left the room once all the polite words were said. There was no sign of anyone as she climbed the stairs to the second floor, and for a brief moment she considered climbing one more flight. Her father had said he had something to tell her. Maybe there was a vague, distant possibility that he would tell her he loved her. Hope sprang eternal, she thought in disgust, stopping on the second floor and heading down the hall toward Jake’s room.

  Someone had closed the shutters, someone had put her copy of Hemingway back on the pile of books, someone had once more searched her suitcase. The candy box lay on top, still untouched amid the tangle of clothes, and Maddy swore, a short, obscene word that gave her great satisfaction.

  This time she didn’t bother to repack. What was the use? The moment she left her room it would be torn apart again. With a sigh she dropped down on the narrow bed, closing her eyes. She should take out her contact lenses, but she was only going to rest for a moment. General Ortega had been exhausting, with his relentless questions and unending probing. In ten minutes she’d feel more like herself, and then she’d go up to the third floor and demand to see her father once more. After all, if they were about to spirit her away with that damned candy box, she deserved every moment she could snatch with her father. It had been more than clear that once she left the hacienda and Puente del Norte she would never see him again.

  The scent of the flowers carried upward on the hot wind, wrapping around her tired body as she lay on the bed. Never would she smell the scent of wild gardenias and roses and not remember San Pablo, she thought wearily. The smell had penetrated her skin and melted into her bloodstream, weaving its hypnotic, erotic spell, leaving her powerless to fight it. Just ten minutes, she promised herself. …

  Once more she was a prisoner. The room was dark, velvet black, and she was trapped on the bed, unable to move, unable to say a word, entirely at the mercy of the man who’d been part of her life, both consciously and unconsciously, for the last fourteen years.

  And she had no desire to escape. There was something blissfully simple about being caught by him, held by him. She no longer had any choice. Whatever he forced her to do, whatever pleasure he inflicted on her would leave her guiltless and free. The threat he presented was more than implicit. It was deadly clear and the dreaming Maddy had no intention of running.

  The bed sagged suddenly, and her eyes flew open. It was the night, the darkness surrounded her, and Jake sat beside her on the bed, staring down at her with fathomless eyes.

  His arms were on either side of her, his hands
pressing deep into the mattress, holding her there without touching her. The chambray shirt was unbuttoned, and she could see his chest in the dim light, the smooth, silken muscles, the faint trace of hair, the hint of scars recent and distant. His long hair was no longer held back by the bandanna, it fell around his face, and Maddy could tell it was wet. He must have just taken a shower, and she could smell the faint scent of shaving soap.

  Say something, she ordered herself, not moving. Ask him if you can have a shower too. Tell him you want to see your father. Tell him to get the hell off your bed.

  The silence lengthened, stretched and grew into a thick web of dazzling beauty. Those deep, unreadable eyes must have hypnotized her, she thought, as she carefully, deliberately moved her hand up inside the prison of his braced arms, moved up without touching him past the open shirt, the lean, strong shoulders, and gently touched his shadowed face.

  His skin was smooth and hard and warm, and the wet hair was a silken swathe against her fingers. He shuddered, a small, almost delicate movement, and then suddenly she could read everything in his mind and for a moment she was terrified.

  His hands left the bed to gently cup her shoulders beneath the crumpled shirt-dress. Slowly he moved her up, pulling her away from the bed, and the careful certainty of his movements gave her more than enough time to pull away. Her hand slid down from his face, trailing against the muscled column of his neck, and then her hands were clasping his shoulders as his were clasping hers. And bending his head further, he gently placed his lips against hers.

  If his other kisses had swamped her with their erotic force, the tenderness of this swept across her emotions, leaving them shattered and wanting in its wake. He made no move to deepen the kiss. His lips seemed content to learn the contours of her mouth, her face, her willful chin and high cheekbones. Her eyelids fluttered closed beneath the gentleness of his mouth, and her fingers closed more tightly on his shoulders, pulling him closer, until her breasts were pressed up against that strong, smooth chest.